


Pins and Pride

by SapphicScholar



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F, Ficlet, First Pride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 10:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19271005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphicScholar/pseuds/SapphicScholar
Summary: From a Pride Month Prompt chart for the day, "Rainbow."Grace and Frankie's first Pride month together unearths some anxieties, but the right person has a way of soothing them





	Pins and Pride

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Originally I'd been posting these only on Tumblr, but thanks to a bit of encouragement (and thanks so much to such a generous, welcoming fandom!), I decided to migrate the slightly longer ones over here. This was my first go at writing for Grace and Frankie, so hopefully I did them a bit of justice, even though I’m still trying to get their voices and figure out my style for writing them as a pairing.

“Tomorrow’s June 1st. You know what that means, don’t ya?” Frankie had asked, apropos of absolutely nothing in between the gummy bears she picked up and popped into her mouth one by one during the commercial breaks of annual Scripps Spelling Bee.

Grace tried to remember. She’d always thought of herself as a considerate partner—she’d certainly been more likely to remember important dates and moments than Robert had, that’s for sure, and she knew his secretary was the only reason she always received a timely, perfectly impersonal gift for their wedding anniversary. But with Frankie, suddenly things weren’t so clear. Grace had inscribed a careful, cursive _F_ inside of her planner on April 17, the day that all of the feelings that she’d been pushing down further and further finally beat back the dam and demanded her attention, demanded that she lean over and kiss the infuriating, impossible woman who she’d fallen in love with at some point over the years. But Frankie recognized so many other dates as important milestones in the relationship she’d described later that same night as being “like playing fetch with that old dog we had, Ernie, remember him?” Grace mainly remembered the way he’d smelled like kibble and rain and mud. “We’d throw a ball for him, and, well, he wasn’t exactly a professional fetch player, if you know what I mean, but he’d meander over. Maybe sniff the grass. Eat a bug. Chew on a stick. Really enjoy the whole experience, one with nature and all that. Pretty enlightened if you think about it. And eventually, he’d find whatever you threw and make his way back to you.” Grace had been halfway to offended until Frankie had added: “Fetch with Ernie. Us." She gestured between them. “Inevitable. You just have to be patient, trust that things will work out.” So instead of getting snippy with Frankie, Grace had found herself kissing Frankie, again, for the better part of an hour until her neck was stiff and her bad knee demanded something stronger than the heat and ice Frankie would suggest.

A few days later, once it was easier to be alone on the couch together without reveling in the newfound ability to lean over and hold hands or hold one another or kiss, Grace finally asked Frankie about the milestones she’d mentioned. As Frankie began listing them, Grace realized she might need a separate planner just to keep track. Because there was the first time Grace made a proper promise with a kiss. The first time they had a whole meal together uninterrupted by phone calls or fights or family members barging into the house. The first time Grace actually ate something at Del Taco. The first time Frankie had an erotic dream about Grace and Del Taco’s queso—unsurprisingly, those two shared a date. The morning on the beach when Frankie first realized she could spend the rest of her life with no one but Grace and be happy. The first time Frankie had an inkling that Grace might feel the same way.

Still, June 1st wasn’t ringing any bells. “Alright, you’ve got me. What is it? Is it the first time we got high together?”

“Don’t jest, Grace. We all know that was an early spring evening just before Mercury entered retrograde.”

“But of course.” Still, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just barely.

“It’s Pride month! Oh Grace, there’s glitter and rainbows and parades—you know how much I like a good parade.” The distinction between good and bad parades was still lost on Grace, though Frankie had been working to explain it, mainly by yelling, “Bad!” whenever they happened to drive past a bad parade or see a bad parade on TV or see something that reminded Frankie of a past bad parade.

“Are you…celebrating?”

“Well of course! But not with those Wall Street sellout types.”

“Obviously.” Frankie beamed at her like she’d done something right, so Grace once more resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“But remember that potluck Babe organized her last year here? Then on Facebook I got an ad for Gay Day at the Beach and a 65+ mixer. And I know it means Mark and all his little friends are listening to me.” She glared at her cell phone. “I know you can hear me, but you don’t own me!” A moment later her attention was back on Grace. “Doesn’t that sound great?”

Grace swallowed heavily, thinking of Robert’s theater friends and the big loud crowds of 20-somethings all yelling about how happy they were to be out and proud when she’d spent her 20s pushing down memories of kissing her best friend in a darkened dorm room and following instructions as everyone around her reminded her that it was time to find the right kind of man and settle down into the right kind of life. She managed some vague noise of assent before begging off with claims of exhaustion, knowing Frankie was never one to discourage napping.

Over the next few days, Grace watched as Frankie trotted out colorful outfit after colorful outfit. Not that her typical color palette was what anyone would call reserved, but now there were patches and buttons and bright swaths of primary colors that made Frankie beam every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror. And Grace tried. She pulled out the pink button up she knew Frankie liked and tried to shy away from the black and gray and navy and tan she too often favored. But still, her colors always turned out more J-Crew in the Summer than Queer Grandmas at Pride. Anything more than that made her stomach clench uncomfortably, like she was trying to force herself into a mold that fit no better than motherhood and heterosexuality had.

So it was with no small amount of trepidation that Grace accepted the rainbow gift bag from Frankie, who stood in front of her, bouncing on the balls of her feet, nearly vibrating with energy as she waited for Grace to tear into the present she’d gotten her “for Pride, of course!”

The first item she pulled out was a coffee mug with Straight Outta the Closet printed on it—an homage Grace recognized only because of the weekend Frankie had come back from some protest or other and made them listen to N.W.A. again and again in her studio until the neighbors came over and asked them to keep it down or at least shut the windows. It wasn’t anything Grace would ever have picked for herself, but it reminded her of Frankie enough that she already knew she’d be using it frequently, just like she’d spent a whole month drinking her coffee out of the matching Vybrant-purple coffee mugs Frankie had made for them.

“There’s still one more thing for today’s potluck!”

“Right.” Grace forced herself to smile as she dug into the tissue paper exploding out of the bag. But she didn’t find the rainbow tutu Frankie had laughed about for a solid three minutes or even one of the t-shirts she’d browsed for hours. Instead, she found a rainbow enamel pin, about the size of her nail.

“I thought you could pin it to that big bag you carry to the beach. Just right in the corner.”

And it was small and understated, but still bright and colorful. A tiny, personal reminder of what this first Pride month being together meant. The kind of thing that could be overlooked, but wouldn’t be by those who knew to look. She didn’t realize she was getting emotional until she felt tears she refused to let fall prickling at her eyes. “It’s perfect,” Grace whispered. “How’d you know?”

“You forget that I am an intuitive witch, Grace Hanson.” Frankie grinned as she reached out a hand, tangling her fingers with Grace’s. It would probably last only until they hit the beach or the water or the first person whose reaction wasn’t already guaranteed to be fine strolling along the shore. But until then, Grace’s hand—always slightly cool to the touch, but perfectly moisturized, perfectly manicured (but nails kept shorter these days, thank you very much)—would find its home in hers, and until then, Frankie would enjoy every second of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter and Tumblr @sapphicscholar


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